


Healing Scars

by thelookyouredoingthelookagain



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: 24 hours together, Anger, Angst, Awkardness, Betrayal, But Not Series 3 Related So No Mary, Confessions, Confusion, Explicit Sexual Content, Honesty, Kissing, Love, M/M, Mind Palace, Readjustments, Safety, Sherlock Returns After The Fall, Silence, Tenderness
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-01
Updated: 2016-02-01
Packaged: 2018-05-17 03:04:50
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 9
Words: 18,262
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5851633
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thelookyouredoingthelookagain/pseuds/thelookyouredoingthelookagain
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock has returned to Baker Street, but neither he nor John feels at home.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Not Home Anymore

**Author's Note:**

> All works here were produced by two friends in the fandom. One writes as SH and one as John, and we edit together. Our characters are based on the BBC's _Sherlock_ , though we don't mind playing a little loosely with canon and the occasional AU. We have whims and like to follow them. While we like to torture our boys with constant misunderstandings, we know they belong together and we always see to that.
> 
> All posted works are complete, and we hope there will be something for everyone. We've got a back catalogue of 100 stories, so feel free to get lost within them. In 2016, we'll be slowing the pace a little, but we hope we've got enough to keep you entertained in between postings. **Our plan is to post once a month, so please subscribe.**
> 
> We also really appreciate the kudos and comments. They mean a lot -- sometimes they inspire new ideas and works, sometimes they just make us feel all warm inside. If you've got requests, you can leave them in the comments or at JW's tumblr page, which can be found [here](http://ivefangirledandicantgetup.tumblr.com/).
> 
> Thanks for reading and liking and being a great community!

John was walking home from work, contemplating what he wanted to pick up for dinner. He was making his way to the Thai place when he stopped, causing a couple to bump into him. Sherlock preferred Chinese to Thai. John had to get used to remembering that he was getting dinner for the both of them again. It had only been a couple weeks since Sherlock's return, and as hard as it had been to break habits when he was first gone, John was finding it just as hard to start them again. He turned and went for Chinese instead. The he headed home, slowly making his way up the stairs. He heard the violin going softly. He stopped on the stairs and listened for a moment. I play the violin -- flatmates should know the worst about each other. The worst. John shook his head and continued up to the flat. He went into the kitchen, not calling out so he didn't interrupt him. 

Sherlock had been staring out the window, letting his violin weep along with the rainy London evening. He watched John walk towards the flat and in the door. He stayed staring out through the glass until it felt like the song was done. He'd felt lonely while John was at work, but didn't want to show it. Sine he'd returned, Sherlock wasn't sure what he should and shouldn't show. He set the violin in its case and went into the kitchen.

"I got Chinese," John said. He pushed Sherlock's box towards him and smiled. He couldn't get used to seeing him there. "I got you the rice."

"Thanks," Sherlock said, grabbing a fork and sitting down at the table. "Everything all right at work?"

"Yeah, you know. The usual," he said. "How were things here? Any cases?" he asked. 

"No, nothing," Sherlock said too quickly. "I don't think I'm ready . . ." He swallowed awkwardly. "I'm sorry . . ."

John shook his head. "Don't be -- it's okay," he said quickly. "I just didn't realise . . . it's okay," he repeated. 

"Stop saying everything's okay, John," Sherlock said, staring off into the distance. "You say it all the time. Things aren't always okay, you know."

John flushed and looked down at his food, mixing it around a bit. "I'm trying to make them be," he said. He got up to get some water, drinking it at the sink. 

Sherlock exhaled. "I know but . . . I don't know what I'm saying. Anyway," he said, getting up from the table. "Thanks for dinner." 

"Right," John said. He drained his glass and put the leftovers away. "I'm going up to bed," he said, grabbing his computer. 

"Really? That's what you do when everything's okay -- go straight to bed?" Sherlock asked sharply.

John paused on the steps and took a deep breath. "I'm tired from work, Sherlock. And frankly, you're not exactly being great company," he snapped back. 

"Fine," Sherlock said. "I'm sorry I'm not entertaining like I apparently used to be." He turned sharply and disappeared into his room.

John watched him go, his eyes burning as he hurried up to his own room. He didn't like to think about what would happen if they couldn't live together anymore. They were both different people now -- two years was a long time. It was a lot to get used to; there was more in the flat with them now. Pain, distrust, secrets. He had missed Sherlock so much, but he hated this. He opened the blog and tried to distract himself. 

Sherlock sat down on the edge of the bed and leaned over, holding his head in his hands. He'd waited all day for John to come home -- all he'd wanted was just to see him, just to be with him in the flat. For it to be like it had been before. But how could it be? John had been so hurt and was sure to be different. And Sherlock had been hurt and he knew he'd changed as well. He hadn't wanted any of those things. All he wanted now was for it to be the same, and he knew it never would be.

John scrolled through the blog, considering venting his frustrations but ruling against it. Instead he answered a few comments before closing it up and lying down. He used to sleep in Sherlock's room, but of course he couldn't now. That bed was more comfortable. It took him a while to fall asleep.

When he did he had a nightmare, the same one where he accidentally pushed Sherlock off of the roof. He woke up too early, panting softly. When he got himself together, he stood up and stretched. A new day and a fresh start. 

Sherlock's night had also been restless. He couldn't shut off his mind and he couldn't get physically comfortable either. He'd woken up early and tried just sitting up in bed. His back was still too tender to take much pressure. He finally gave in and took a quick shower, moving back into his bedroom quietly in the hopes that he wouldn't disturb John. He dug out the cream the doctor had given him and stood in front of the mirror, trying to reach his injuries.

John got up to make tea, pulling Sherlock's mug down as well, since he'd heard him moving around in his room. He poured the hot water and went to Sherlock's door. "Sherlock? I brought tea," he said. After a quick knock with his foot, he pushed it open. 

What he saw almost made him drop the tea. Sherlock's back was covered in angry, red marks. "Sorry I-I'll leave it here," he said, putting Sherlock's on the table and hurrying out of the room again.

Sherlock grabbed his dressing gown and wrapped it around him quickly, but John was already gone. He pushed the door shut again and sat down on his bed and resting his head in his hands. Then he sat upright, took a deep breath and stood up. He picked up his tea and took a sip and then opened the bedroom door to go out to the kitchen.

John stood near the worktop, watching the toaster as he waited for the bread to pop out. Sherlock had been hurt -- really hurt. Those scars were not from fighting. They were made on purpose, and they must have been deep to still be so inflamed. He was pulled from his thoughts when he heard Sherlock coming into the kitchen. He didn't know what to say -- he couldn't make himself bring up the scars. He tried to act normal. "We still have a lot of Chinese so I won't grab dinner on my way home."

"Fine, that's fine," Sherlock said too quickly. He picked up his mug and moved into the sofa, without having looked at John once. It wasn't right. What he wanted to say was 'Don't go to work, I don't want to be alone in the flat anymore'. But he didn't say that. He didn't say anything.

John buttered his toast and took it to go, putting his jacket on quickly. "See you," he said, hurrying out of the flat. He hated this. They didn't even get a chance to talk about the argument last night, and now John's bursting in was added on top of it all. It didn't feel like home anymore. But this is what they did now. They didn't live together. They just lived in the same space. 

Sherlock sat in silence for a few moments and then reached for his phone.

_I'm sorry._

He stared at the words. He was -- he was so terribly sorry for everything he'd done that had brought on this change. Everything that had been done. He was sorry that he didn't know how to fix it, to make it so John felt the way he had before, so they could live as they had before. That was all Sherlock wanted now. And he had no idea how to make it happen. He deleted the words and set his mug on the table. He shifted to get more comfortable on the sofa and tried to find one room in his Mind Palace where he could feel safe and not alone.


	2. Sherlock's Back

John treated injuries and flu all day, but his mind was stuck on Sherlock's scars. Who had done that to him? It was the first time he had really thought about what Sherlock had been doing when he was away. He had told John he had been taking down Moriarty's web, but when John thought about it, he hadn't pictured anything like this. 

What did he think Sherlock had been doing all that time? John didn't like thinking about Sherlock's life while he was away, because a part of him was still angry at Sherlock. A part of John wanted to be the only one that was hurt because that would make it easier to stay furious. But why was staying angry so important now? He stood and looked through the creams and medicines they had available, but the one he needed required a prescription. During lunch, he nipped out to the chemist's and got some. He knew Sherlock must have wanted to keep this a secret, but it was too late -- John had seen the marks and had to do something. He didn't know if Sherlock would use the cream, didn't know if he could -- he surely couldn't reach his whole back alone. Why hadn't he asked for help? John rolled his eyes at himself. Of course he wouldn't ask for help. That's not how they were now. Well, John would just have to suck it up and be the bigger person. He couldn't just leave Sherlock like that. When he headed for the flat, he put the cream in his pocket. 

When Sherlock came back from his Mind Palace, he sat up, working hard to convince himself to start the day. But the day was almost over now -- John would be home soon. He took a quick shower, doing his best to rinse his wounds with the soapy water. He slipped on the softest shirt he had and went into the kitchen to put the kettle on.

John walked into the flat, hearing the kettle and smiling softly. It had been a long time since tea was ready before he got home. 

Sherlock handed John his mug. "I feel like I need to say something to you," he said softly before lifting his own cup to his mouth.

John's stomach twisted nervously before he brought his own cup up to his mouth. "Okay."

"I . . . apologise," Sherlock said calmly and then took another drink.

John blinked into his tea. He didn't think Sherlock had actually said he was sorry since he got home. It was all sarcastic comments and jokes . . . a lot of avoiding the issue and John's anger about it. Why was he saying it now? Because of what John saw in the morning? He licked his lips and nodded. "Thank you for saying that," he said.

Sherlock wanted to look up at John, but he was too afraid to -- he wanted to see John's old face, the way his face used to look back at him -- but he knew he wouldn't. He wondered if he ever would again. "Okay, then," he said softly. "I'm not very hungry, but you can go ahead and eat if you'd like. I might . . ." He searched his mind and couldn't find a single thing he actually felt like doing. ". . . skip dinner," he settled on and then topped up his tea before moving over to his chair. He'd turned it a bit so he could look out the window.

John nodded. "Okay," he said, his voice soft and thick. He got the box of leftovers out and heated it in the microwave, sitting at the table alone to eat. He thought about the cream in his coat pocket and he glanced at Sherlock, wondering if he was hurting right now. It made him lose his appetite a bit.

Sherlock listened to John move in the kitchen and then sit down to eat. He stared out the window into nothing but space and sky. "I don't want this, you know," he said.

"Don't want what?" John asked, looking down quickly, so Sherlock didn't catch him staring. 

"This," Sherlock said again. "How we are, how the flat is." He finished his tea and stood up from his chair, still facing the window. "However, I do not know how to fix it." He moved into the kitchen and put his mug in the sink. "So either time will change things or this will be how we are now," he added, still without looking at John. "I think I'll go read in my room." And then he was gone again, sitting on the bed with his head in his hands, not wanting it to be this way but knowing that everything he did just guaranteed things would stay as they are.

_Leaving isn't helping!_ John wanted to shout at him. They could hardly stand to be in the same room as each other now, how were things going to get back to normal? John pushed his food away and looked at his coat. One of them had to start. If they couldn't be friends yet, then they would be doctor and patient again. He stood and grabbed the cream from his pocket. He stared at it for a long moment. Sherlock couldn't put it on alone, which meant John had to be prepared not only for rejection, but for things to get even more tense between them. He went to Sherlock's room and knocked softly. 

Sherlock lifted his head. He moved to sit properly on the bed, resting lightly against the pillow. He reached around to grab a book but nothing was there. "Yeah?" he said. "Open the door, John."

John pushed open the door and stood in the frame for a moment. He already decided that he was coming in a doctor and whatever happened within their friendship didn't belong here now. "I have a cream . . . it's going to help with the scarring," he said. 

"I don't know what you mean," Sherlock lied. He looked down at the bed. "I'm fine," he lied again.

John almost left. But that was how things got this way -- one of them had to stop leaving. "I know they must hurt. The cream is prescription . . . it numbs the skin a bit and helps scar tissue heal better," he continued. 

"Fine," Sherlock said. "You can leave it . . . I was reading." He couldn't bring himself to lift his head, too embarrassed that he couldn't stop lying even though he knew John knew the truth.

Sherlock was pushing him away so hard, but John had already had enough time away from Sherlock. He wasn't going to be away from him when they were in the same flat, too. "I know it's hard to reach . . . I could do it for you," he offered. His voice was soft, nervous. 

Sherlock glanced over at John. He obviously knew -- he'd obviously seen them this morning. And, of course, he was right, Sherlock couldn't reach properly and the tenderness and itch were really driving him mad. "Fine," he said again, quickly realising that word had apparently become his new favourite. "Just -- come on, fine," he said. He lifted his shirt over his head and lay back down, burying his face in the pillow as if that meant John couldn't see him because he couldn't see John.

John walked into the room and looked down at Sherlock's back. It was worse than he thought. Whatever had happened must have been awful. John opened the cream and put a couple small dollops on Sherlock's back. He touched him gently, rubbing the cream into the skin. "Does it hurt?" he asked quietly. 

"Obviously," Sherlock whispered. He winced at John's touch, but there was something also good about it. It was a comfort. John had always been the only place Sherlock could find comfort.

John thought about the first day Sherlock had come back -- how he hadn't even recognised him at first. And his voice . . . well, John thought he was always hearing Sherlock's voice so he didn't bother with that either. And then it was Sherlock, back from the dead, and John tackled him. They both fell, Sherlock on his back and John on top of him. How fresh were they then? How many broke open? Sherlock never said a word, never showed any hint of being in pain. "I'm sorry," he said quietly. 

"It's not your fault," Sherlock said. "It's mine." He swallowed a little. "All of this . . . it's all my fault."

"I would have come with you . . . would have left everything," John said as he rubbed the cream into Sherlock's skin. 

"You couldn't have," Sherlock said. "I needed you to be safe . . . where I was, wasn't."

John traced one of the scars at those words before going back to rubbing them lightly. "I could have protected you," he said, even though he still didn't even know from what. 

"You did, John," Sherlock whispered.

John's hands moved over the scars. "No, if I had, you never would have jumped." That was his most reoccurring thought before he knew Sherlock was on a mission. If he had just said the right words on the phone, or in the lab before he stormed out, maybe Sherlock wouldn't have jumped. His sadness had been matched only by his guilt. "I couldn't save you. I didn't know how." 

"I didn't die, John," Sherlock said. "You did save me . . . you gave me a reason."

John's hands slowed and then stopped. What did that mean? John didn't understand how Sherlock had been saved because it was all a trick. 

"A reason to live," Sherlock said quietly as if he could read John's questions.

John's hand stopped moving. "That should be more comfortable tonight," he said. And suddenly he was back to being the doctor of a patient, and not a broken man looking for answers. This was the most they'd said since Sherlock came back -- Sherlock had given a brief explanation and had acted like there was no need to share more. Did John feel better now that more had been talked about? Maybe a little bit -- putting some of his guilt into the room for Sherlock to hold as well. Taking some of Sherlock's pain so he wouldn't have to hold it all either. "Good night, Sherlock." He took the cream and walked out of the room. He took it because tomorrow night, he was going to be the one to put it on again. They were not going to keep hiding from each other. 

Sherlock lay there quietly, not moving at all, as the night fell outside the window and the room went dark.

John slept uneasily. He had the dream where he pushed Sherlock off of the roof again, only this time Sherlock was begging him to say the right thing -- to say the words he needed to step down from the ledge. But John didn't know them.


	3. Come Home

When John woke up, he dragged himself out of bed and went to get ready for work. They had talked, finally. He didn't know what would happen now. Even as Sherlock came into the kitchen, John couldn't bring up the conversation, not even the cream. Not even to tell him he would do it again tonight. "Morning," he said, passing Sherlock his mug. 

"Morning," Sherlock said, nodding thanks for the tea. "Work today?"

"Yeah," John nodded. He sipped on his tea. "I shouldn't be late. There are still leftovers in the fridge."

"Fine," Sherlock said. "I mean, right. I'll probably be too busy . . ." He lifted the mug to his mouth and then moved over to his chair.

John looked at the back of his head. He wouldn't be busy -- he still wasn't working on cases. But John didn't fight him on it. This was how things were in the light. They pretended like they could live together like old times. John wanted it too much to stop pretending. "I'll see you later," he said before he left. 

"Okay," Sherlock said. He didn't turn from his seat. Ever since he'd return, he didn't like watching John walk out the door. He closed his eyes and went away to a place where John was there with him and things were good between them.

This was the most John had ever worked since moving into Baker Street. His hours were always part time because he spent so much of his time running around with Sherlock, and even if they weren't running around London, he had preferred being in the flat with him while he solved cases -- even if he was away in his mind. Then after Sherlock died, John was too lost. He had gone through a phase where he wanted to go look for Sherlock, when he didn't really believe he was gone. John visited Mycroft and was promptly shut down. He wondered now if Mycroft had told Sherlock about that. Unable to stand being in the flat alone, he had picked up a lot more hours, desperate to be out all day, hoping that if he worked himself to exhaustion he wouldn't have nightmares. Now Sherlock was back and he was still working those hours. He didn't know how to be at home. 

Sherlock opened his eyes. He looked at the clock. Another day gone. He turned in his chair but the flat was empty. He reached for his phone.

_Where are you? SH_

John ignored the text when he first heard his phone -- he never answered anyone while he was at work. But then he remembered that it could be Sherlock -- that Sherlock was home and he could be texting John again. That was the only person he did answer while he was at work. When he saw Sherlock’s name on the screen it was like, for one second, the last two years hadn’t happened. Here he was about to tell John to abandon his work and come on a case. Only they weren’t working on cases now. He opened the text nervously, unsure what to expect.

Oh. Well, that was a usual Sherlock message. It calmed his nerved a bit.  

_Just finishing up some files. I'll be leaving in a few minutes. Do you need anything? -JW_

_Just come home. SH_

Sherlock knew it was stupid -- he'd probably find himself running off to his room as soon as John got home, but he just didn't want to be alone in the flat anymore. He just needed John to be here.

John read the message. He found it a bit ironic. _Why couldn't you just come home?_ he wanted to ask. But a small voice in his head pointed out that Sherlock didn't want to be alone any more than he did. And even though they didn't really know how to be with each other anymore, John couldn't say no. He wanted that too. 

_Okay. See you soon. -JW_

Sherlock got up and took a shower. He tried to look at his back in the mirror, but he could only see the dark red marks near his shoulder blades. He wished John's cream would just make them go away forever. He got dressed and then went into the kitchen to make tea. He boiled enough for two cups but only poured one, taking it over to the sofa and turning on the television.

When John walked into the flat, he announced, "I'm home." Obviously Sherlock had heard him, but he announced it anyway because of the text. 

"Good, then," Sherlock said. "Kettle's just boiled." He flipped through the channels.

John hung his jacket and poured his tea. Then he heated Sherlock's leftovers because he knew they would go to waste if he didn't. He hesitated before bringing both to the sitting room, sitting on the other side of the couch and watching the telly while he ate. 

"I would've treated you to a proper dinner," Sherlock said, glancing over. He pushed the remote over toward John.

"Like us going out for something?" he asked. John flipped the news on, glancing at Sherlock again. 

"I don't know . . . I didn't think that far ahead," Sherlock admitted. "Did you want to order something?" he looked over and saw John put a forkful into his mouth.

"Let's do it tomorrow when I come home -- either out or here in the flat, okay?" John chewed slowly, feeling a bit guilty. 

"Whatever you want," Sherlock said, finishing his tea. "You know I don't care about food." He stood up and took his mug to the sink. "I'm going to take a bath," he announced. He didn't really want to but felt that going into his room would seem awkward, and at least in the bath he could be alone without questions.

John glanced at Sherlock's still damp hair. How would they go out when they could hardly stand to be in the same room together? "Okay," he said quietly, looking away to the telly again so Sherlock wouldn't see his disappointment. He missed Sherlock more now than when he was really gone. He had never seemed so far away. 

Sherlock disappeared into his room and grabbed some pajamas and a book. He'd been dressed for less than two hours. He went into the bathroom and turned on the water. All of a sudden he realised how stupid this all was. He glanced at the door but couldn't bring himself to open it. He turned off the water, changed into his pajamas and sat down on the toilet to read his book.

John wanted to shut off the telly and go to bed. A part of him didn't want to be anywhere down here when Sherlock came out of the bathroom. But he was thinking about the cream -- whatever was happening between them, his patient needed that cream and as his doctor, he would apply it. He went up to his room to get it, sitting in front of the telly to wait for Sherlock. 

Eventually the bathroom was filled with the steam from the bath, and the pages of Sherlock's book started to feel damp. He took the plug out and let the water drain and grabbed his clothes, which he threw into his bedroom. He went to the kitchen and put the kettle on. "Need a cup?" he asked John.

John shook his head. "I'm fine," he said. 

Sherlock poured one for him and grabbed a banana. "I think I'll get ready for bed then," he said a bit stupidly since he was already in his pajamas and it wasn't even nine o'clock yet.

John set his jaw. "Why did you ask me to come home?" he asked, really wishing that he hadn't. He didn't want to fight. He just wanted things to be okay.

"Because all you do is work -- it wasn't like that before," Sherlock started but stopped. "I just -- I just wanted you to come home. Sorry. . ."

_But I came home and you won't even stay in the same room as me,_ John thought but he didn't say it out loud. He only nodded, his eyes fixed on the telly again. 

Sherlock stood there for a few moments and then moved over and sat down in his chair. He turned it towards the television, sitting silently and staring at the screen as he drank his tea.

John glanced at the back of Sherlock's head, at the sliver of his profile that he could see from this angle. He was trying to figure out why Sherlock still felt so far away. He touched the cream beside him. When he went to Sherlock's room, and they were in the dark, maybe he would ask. 

Sherlock wasn't really watching the TV -- he was reliving a night they'd spent together before he'd left. Many nights. Just doing nothing -- maybe watching television or working or arguing or laughing. Just being themselves, just being what they were -- obliviously taking it all for granted. He caught a flash of movement out of the corner of his eye and saw John shifting on the sofa. When he started flicking through the channels again, Sherlock stood up. "I'm going to go lie down now," he said and moved quickly to his room to avoid any more of John's questions.

John shut the telly off when he heard Sherlock's door close. He took a deep breath and held the cream in his hand, pushing himself off of the sofa and going to the door. He knocked lightly. "I have the cream for you."

Sherlock had already rushed under the covers by the time John came to the door. "Right," he mumbled before more loudly saying, "I think it's all fine now." Fine. That word again.

John's heart broke a little, because he had fooled himself into believing Sherlock was in on the game too. That Sherlock believed that at night, in the dark, maybe they could have just a few minutes of being together like before. "Um . . . I can leave it here," he said, putting the cream on the floor outside of his door. He turned and went into the bathroom, shutting the door and leaning against it. 

Sherlock sat up and grabbed the cream but the minute his shirt was off, he knew he'd never be able to reach the scars. "John," he called. "Could you help?" He set the cream on the bed and lay down on his stomach again.

John went into Sherlock's room, now with the added feeling that he wasn't wanted here. But he was useful. He put the two small dollops on Sherlock's back. "Did you _want_ to come home?" he asked softly as he started rubbing. 

"It's the only thing I wanted," Sherlock said, without thinking. It was entirely true. Somehow it was easier to be honest like this, in the dark with his face covered. Despite the scars, his back could bear whatever it needed to, as long as Sherlock kept his face hidden.

"I spent a long time shouting for you . . . and making two mugs of tea and picking up two dinners . . ." John was speaking quietly again, the only way he could in this moment. "And now you're home and I don't know how to be."

"I want us to be how we were," Sherlock said, more truth spilling out.

"Me too, but I really don't know how," John said. "I'm still . . . angry, I guess. And you still seem lost, so far away."

"I am lost," Sherlock whispered. That was precisely how he felt. "You're far away -- farther even than when I was gone." He jerked a little as John touched a particularly sensitive spot.

John almost pulled his hands away, but he just lightened his touch and kept going. "We can hardly be in the same room . . . I don't know how to bring you back." He wondered if admitting that he was still angry would help at all. At least it meant he didn't have to pretend that things were normal all the time. 

"I missed so much . . . I'm afraid I don't know you . . . " Sherlock said.

"But you can't learn if you're always hiding from me," John said softly.

"I don't want to have to learn . . . I want to already know."

"It's been two years, Sherlock." Two years of loss and grief and things that changed a person forever. And in John's case, it had all been fake -- for nothing. That changed people as well. His hands started slowing again.

"But you know -- you know everything, now that you've seen these," Sherlock said, wiping his face on the pillowcase. "You still know -- and I'm still in the dark."

"I don't know anything about these except how to make them better," John said. He had a hundred questions. What had Sherlock been doing while he was away? What did taking down the web include? Who had done this to Sherlock? What else had he survived? Had he missed John? Thought about him? Did he want to write? Did he ever try to call? How many times had he needed help? Had he been scared? Had he been alone? He couldn't make a single one of those questions actually come out. 

"But you do know, John -- you know me inside and out," Sherlock said. "Or at least you did. Perhaps I've lost that as well."

"I thought I knew you," John said softly. He stopped rubbing Sherlock's back and closed the cream. Had he known Sherlock? He wasn't sure anymore. When he saw Sherlock standing on the roof, doubting himself so much, unable to be pulled back by John's reassurances -- he realised he hadn't known Sherlock at all. He spent two years wondering how he could have missed that amount of doubt, despairing in the fact that he couldn't stop it. And then Sherlock was back, and it was a trick, like the same old Sherlock who left an old woman strapped to a bomb just for a game. But now he wasn't that Sherlock either. John really didn't know anymore. "Good night, Sherlock."

John hurried up to his own room, closing the door and taking sharp, quick breaths. He wiped his eyes hard, blinking to stop the tears from falling. He wondered what would happen if he told Sherlock his fears -- the fact that he had held onto the guilt of not being able to save his friend for so long, nitpicking every little thing he ever did or said that could have pushed Sherlock further away. He hadn't really come to terms with the fact that his guilt was for nothing. Sherlock hadn't killed himself. His mind had twisted Sherlock into a sad, lonely man pushed away by his only friend -- was that a true image? It scared him that he really didn't know any more. 

Sherlock stayed still for a while after John left the room. Then he lifted his head and realised his eyes were wet. His wiped them with his hands and then turned on his side. The room smelled of the cream. Sherlock wanted it to smell like him and John and home. He drifted to sleep but woke with a start. A nightmare. He'd gone three nights without one and had hoped they were gone for good, but apparently they were not. Why couldn't he control his mind like he had before? Yet another thing Sherlock had lost. He got up and moved to his bedroom window, staring out into the street. It was wet again and looked cold. He wished he could go up to John's room -- even if he just sat there while John slept, Sherlock knew it'd make him feel better. So many nights when he was away, he'd used the image of John Watson for comfort. And now here they were in the same flat, and neither could give the other what they needed. He moved quietly to the bathroom and then the kitchen to get himself a drink.

Upstairs, John was dreaming again -- one where he was calling up to Sherlock from the street, telling him all of the good things about himself, all of the good things he had done. Sherlock was telling him it wasn't enough. There was something else he needed to hear, but John didn't know what it was. He woke up with a start when Sherlock jumped. The light was starting to come into the room so he didn't try and sleep again. He pushed himself out of bed and went to get ready for work. 

Sherlock had fallen asleep on the sofa, so he sat up a bit confused when he heard John come down the stairs. He picked up his mug but of course the tea was cold. "Morning," he mumbled as he went to put the kettle on.

"Morning," John said, moving into the kitchen to start making something for breakfast. "Are you okay? Did you sleep on the sofa?"

"Yeah, I got up to read," Sherlock said. He had to stop lying if he was going to keep doing such a bad job of it. "I guess I fell asleep out here." He stretched a bit, which pulled the skin on his back, but he did his best not to react. He poured two cups of tea and left one on the worktop as he made his way to his chair.

John didn't understand how they could talk honestly at night and be so distant in the day. Well, he understood but he didn't like it. He pulled the mug of tea closer and sipped at it quietly. "I'll see you later," he said, taking one more sip before he left for work. 

"Have a good day at work," Sherlock called as John left, but he wasn't sure he'd heard him.


	4. Changes

Sherlock moved into his bedroom and put his dressing gown on and went downstairs to knock on Mrs Hudson's door.

"Morning," she said. She still couldn't believe he was back, but he looked so different, older and sadder. "Come in. I'm making breakfast."

He followed her in. "Just a cup of tea, please," he said quietly and sat down at her kitchen table.

Mrs Hudson set a mug down for him and then went back to her breakfast making, waiting for Sherlock to talk. But he didn't. A few minutes later, she brought two plates over, each with eggs and bacon. She put one in front of him. "So . . . did you want to talk about something?" she asked.

Sherlock picked up his fork and broke the eggs, watching the gold spill over the white. "I can't seem to do anything," he said softly before taking a small bite of bacon.

"I see," she said. "Work, you mean, or . . . just anything at all?"

"Anything," he said. "Like be around John."

_So_ , Mrs Hudson thought, _that was the problem_. Everyone, including Sherlock, would understand why it'd take him a little while to get back to working on cases. But his head must be going mad trying to understand why things were different with John. "Have you two talked?" she asked tentatively.

"Yes," he said. "Yes, I think we've talked. We talk. We talked this morning before he left for work."

She took a sip of tea and looked over at him. He seemed . . . broken. When he first came back, he looked beaten down and tired, but now he seemed broken and clearly was hoping John would fix him. "John struggled, Sherlock," she said. "He was destroyed almost -- it was all so . . . big and then you came back and I'm sure he was angry and relieved and confused and now . . . things are just different."  
  
"I don't want them to be different."  
  
"But you're different, aren't you?" she asked.

He looked down at his now empty plate. "Yes," he practically whispered.

"Have you told John?"

"I . . . can't," he said. He drank the rest of his tea and then looked up at her. "Could I stay down here for a bit? Maybe watch telly, just until he comes home?"  
  
"Of course," she said, picking up their plates. "Go on through."

When it was time for lunch, John sat at his desk with his sandwich, thinking about the flat. He had been telling Sherlock to stop running, but John was spending all of his time at work, running from Sherlock as well. It wasn't fair. A part of him didn't want to care about that -- he had made the first step by talking to Sherlock in his room. Wasn't it his turn now? Why was John always the one having to sacrifice…?

He cut himself off very suddenly. That was a bad road to go down. They both needed help, and the truth was that even before Sherlock left, he'd been bad at talking about feelings. Now, with everything they had been through -- God knew what Sherlock had gone through -- he might be even worse. If John was able to help Sherlock, and eventually himself, why shouldn't he? He went to Sarah's office and asked her to take his hours down a bit, back to part time. Maybe if he was at the flat more, they could move pass the awkwardness that was settled over them. 

When it was time to go home, he texted Sherlock. 

_Are we meeting for dinner or should I come home first? -JW_

_Come home. SH_  
  
Sherlock had eventually gone back upstairs after falling asleep on Mrs Hudson's sofa. He got himself dressed and tried to have a more positive outlook. He was going to be normal this evening.

_On my way. -JW_

John left work and took a taxi. As they headed for the flat, he figured he could use texting to get things started a bit since they were both having such a hard time talking. 

_I cut my hours down at work. -JW_

Sherlock read the message.

_I hope you didn't do that on my behalf. SH  
But I'm glad. SH_

John started to type.

_If we don't spend time together we won't stop being lost._

He stared at the message. They hadn't let that talk come out into the day time yet. What if he rushed it and ruined everything? They were so fragile at the moment. He erased it all and started again. 

_Well, I missed you. -JW_

That was still a bit more revealing, but it was better. 

Sherlock felt a small smile creep onto his face. When was the last time he'd smiled?  
  
_I'm glad you'll be home more. Come home now. SH  
_

John looked at Sherlock's text for a long time. He was glad that John would be home more. What was he supposed to trust? This text message? Or Sherlock running from the room when they were alone together? He decided to trust the text because, if John was using them to say what he couldn't in person, maybe Sherlock was too. 

Sherlock put the kettle on and set out two mugs. He went upstairs and looked inside John's room. He'd thought of it so many times in his head. He inhaled the smell. It made him feel better. He closed the door and went down to pour the tea.

John paid the driver and hurried inside. It was colder than he liked. He made his way upstairs and hung his jacket, going into the kitchen. "It's freezing outside," he said. 

"Here," Sherlock said, handing him his tea. "This should warm you up."

"Thank you," he said, taking the mug. Sherlock was still in the room with him. He sipped on his tea slowly, not making any sudden movements. 

"Do you want me to make a fire?" Sherlock asked. 

"When we come back, I think. Unless we are having dinner here," he said. 

"Whatever you want," Sherlock said.

John shook his head. "You said you were treating so you pick," he said. He was fighting a smile -- this was just like before. 

"Fine, let's go out," Sherlock said. "If you insist."

"I just insisted that you picked what you wanted," John said. 

"Don't start," Sherlock said lightly. "What kind of food do you want? Tell me and I'll pick the restaurant."

"I want to go to Angelo's," John said, watching Sherlock's face closely. 

"Fine," Sherlock said. "That's fine."

John licked his lips lightly. "You're sure?"

Sherlock groaned loudly. "Whatever you want, John Watson!" he called loudly. Actually, making all that noise seemed to kind of help.

John flinched a bit. Was he angry? "I just wanted to go to our place," he said. He looked down at his mug because he found he couldn't look at Sherlock.

" _This_ is our place," Sherlock mumbled. "But Angelo's is fine. Stop being a baby." He picked up a piece of paper, crumbled it, and threw it at John's head. It missed. "I missed," he said stupidly.

John's brows furrowed, but his mouth was smiling. "Then stop shouting and go get dressed. I'm starving," he said.

"I am dressed!" Sherlock shouted again. "It's only Angelo's -- these are clothes -- what's the problem?"

"I thought you had pajamas on," John said as he put his coat on.

"It's evening, John," Sherlock said. "I did go out today, you know." At least that wasn't totally a lie. He put his coat on. "These are proper trousers, aren't they?"

John took a closer look and nodded. "Come on, then."

When they were out on the street, Sherlock said, "So you're into fashion now? That's part of the new you?"

"No. I just didn't want you going out in pajamas like some kind of tramp," he said.

"That's hurtful," Sherlock said. "You look exhausted if you want to know. I hope people don't think I'm your carer."

John rolled his eyes. "No one is going to think that. I've been working hard all day."

"Have you really quit your job?" Sherlock asked.

"I didn't quit, I just dropped down to three days a week," he said.

"To be with me?" Sherlock said quietly.

John nodded. "Yeah. It's been too long and . . . and now you're here so I can't take that for granted," he said quietly.

"Well, thanks," Sherlock said. He wanted to say more but didn't know how to put it into words.

John glanced over at him. What had he expected? A grand admission of his feelings? But it was a start. "Are you going to keep running from me?" he asked

"I don't . . ." Sherlock said. "It's just . . . it's hard to look at you . . ."

John looked away from him. "It's hard to have you within reach and yet so far away," he mourned. "Please . . .I don't know what to do." 

"Are you talking about touching me?"

John shook his head. "I feel like we're strangers. I don't like it. I missed you so much, and it feels like I still don't have you back."

"I don't know how to . . . I just want us to be like it never happened . . ."

"But it did happen, Sherlock. We can't just ignore it!" John said. "It was hard," he said quietly.

"I know that, I know it, John," Sherlock said. "But nothing changes what happened . . . can't you just be how you were?"

John stopped walking. He felt like he was going to be sick. "No, I can't. The person I used to be didn't watch his best friend jump off a building. The person I was didn't spend a year swallowed in guilt thinking if he had just said the right words he could have helped you. The person I was didn't spend the year after that lost in nightmares and grief." He took a deep breath. "All of that was for nothing. You were off solving the biggest case, off on your adventure . . ." He stopped before he said anything he regretted. He knew Sherlock had suffered as well.

Sherlock stopped as well. He slowly moved behind John -- he hadn't been lying, it was too hard to look at him. But he had something to say. He leaned in and spoke against John's ear. "You have been my biggest adventure, John Watson," he whispered. "I never ever wanted you to suffer and I will never ever stop regretting that you did. But everything good that has ever happened to me has been because of you, and I want that back." He turned and continued walking.

John stood frozen on the sidewalk for a moment, watching Sherlock walking ahead. He wiped his eyes hard before hurrying to catch up.

Sherlock tried to focus on his breathing as he walked, worried that he shouldn't have said so much. It was all true, but he'd always been wary of saying his feelings and now he'd chosen to when things were already a mess.


	5. Some Honesty

When they arrived, Sherlock held open the door for John, not meeting his eyes as they walked in.

John went inside and to their usual table, always reserved for the two of them. He set his jacket beside him and scooted in, pulling the menu close even though he didn't really need to.

"I might get a glass of wine," Sherlock said, starting stupidly at his own menu. "Do you care?"

"No, of course, I don't," John said. He looked out of the window, at the people walking across the street. Mrs Hudson and Molly and Lestrade all seemed fine with his return. None of them was having the problems he was having with it. Why was John's reaction so different?

"I'm just saying, I have not eaten much over the last . . . few days so the alcohol may have an effect on me, which is likely to be tiredness rather than exhilaration so I suppose I'm actually asking if you're prepared to carry me home if I get too tired to walk," Sherlock said, glancing up and trying to look at John normally. 

John glanced up and the corner of his mouth twitched a bit. "I'll come back for you in the morning," he said.

"Fair enough," Sherlock said. Angelo came over, fussing them a bit, before taking their order. Once he'd left, Sherlock said, "So do you go to work tomorrow or what?"

"No, I don't," he said. "It'll be every other day now, weekends only if they really need me."

"Do you think we'll just sit around doing our best not to look at each other?" Sherlock asked. He was worried that would happen -- for the past few weeks, he'd hated John being out of the flat but found it hard to interact when he was home.

John shrugged, fiddling with his silverware. "I don't want that to happen," he said.

"What should we do to avoid that?" Sherlock asked.

John shrugged again. "We have to talk. I don't think we can avoid that."

"But what about? I'm not ready for cases, John, even though I know that'd give us something to talk about, but I'm . . . not ready." 

"No, Sherlock. About what happened. About the two years," John said. "We can't just whisper about it in the dark and then pretend like nothing happened in the day."

"Why not?" Sherlock said. "It's easier in the dark . . ." His voice was quiet and he couldn't look at John again.

"Because we live in the day, Sherlock. And I can't stand you not being able to look at me. I can't stand having you so far away." His voice broke a bit and he pressed his eyes hard. "I've missed you for long enough," he whispered.

"You don't need to miss me now," Sherlock said. "I'm home and I'm not leaving again."

"But you're still so far away," John said. And he knew he was too, because he was holding on to things he'd never spoken out loud, not even at Sherlock's grave. There were things that he was holding onto that made a wall between them and he wasn't sure if he was ready to tear it down.

"All right, look," Sherlock said. "How about for the next 24 hours we stay together -- same room, looking at each other as much as possible . . . even if it's awkward which it probably will be?" It seemed like a stupid idea, but he had no others.

"We have to talk," John said again. "We have to, Sherlock."

"Fine," Sherlock said. "We'll be in the same room, looking at each other and talking. All right?"

John nodded. "Okay," he said.

Sherlock looked at his watch. "Fine. Until tomorrow at eight o'clock we stay together. Private toilet breaks are permitted," he looked over at John, doing his best to meet his gaze.

John took a deep breath, knowing what this could possibly reveal for him. But it had to be done. He knew now what those lost words were that dream Sherlock was always begging to hear. "Deal."

"Fine," Sherlock said and they finished eating their dinner without much more talk.

When they got back to the flat, Sherlock said, "I'm going to put the kettle on in the kitchen if you'd like to come with me."  
  
"I'm going to get a fire going," John said after he hung his jacket.

"Good," Sherlock said. "It seems freezing in here." He poured two cups of tea and brought them in, setting one near John's chair. He sat down in his and waited for John to finish making the fire.

John sat in his own chair, sipping on his tea. The problem was that nothing good had happened in the two years they were supposed to talk about. It was hard. "How did you get them?"

Sherlock looked down. So John was going to start there. "In Serbia I was captured and . . . held for awhile. It happened there," he said quietly.

"You said Mycroft knew -- couldn't he help you?" John asked.

"He did . . ." Sherlock said. ". . . eventually."

"Eventually," John repeated tightly. "Was that the only time?"

"No," Sherlock said. "And these details are important to you? Should I be asking you about each time you shut your fingers in a door or tripped on the stairs?"

John threw him a hard look. "No. But maybe about the times I woke up screaming from nightmares of pushing you off of the roof. Or maybe the times I thought I heard you playing your violin or talking and I rushed down, knowing I would find nothing but more heartache. You say you left to protect me and yet you nearly killed me. I almost followed you," he finished quietly. "So many times I almost followed you . . ." 

Sherlock tried to take in all the information. Finally he said, "But you didn't. You waited for me to come back . . . even though I know you didn't know, you still waited for me to come back and I did."

Something about those words made John even angrier. No acknowledgment of his pain, of the suffering he went through for nothing. It was all about Sherlock and his fancy trick. "A part of me died that day, Sherlock. I had the grief of losing you on top of my own guilt for not being able to stop you. And anger . . . Christ, I was angry at you. What you did was selfish and cruel. You left everyone behind to muddle through life without you. And you come back and we're supposed to laugh, like this is such a 'Sherlock' thing to do." He had started crying again and he looked away from Sherlock, his hands shaking lightly. 

"No, John," Sherlock said, trying to keep his voice calm but not succeeding entirely. "No, that's not it at all . . . I had to leave so you all would be safe -- I know you won't believe me and I know it won't make up for the pain you went through, but none of this was about me and tricks or laughs. And going to extremes simply to protect the ones he loves -- I can guarantee you that's not a 'Sherlock' thing. Caring was never a part of my life until you came along . . ."

John wiped his eyes hard. "I spent so much time wondering if I had told you . . . if I had just said . . ." He trailed off and looked at his tea. He wished he had something stronger. He shook his head. 

"If it had been real . . . what could you have told me to make me stop? John, you're a doctor -- you know better," Sherlock said more softly. "I wish I could have stopped you from…all that."

"Don't say 'if it was real'," he said a bit sharply. "It was real to me. Everything you wanted me to believe -- wanted him to believe -- I did. I thought I lost you forever. Don't you dare tell me that wasn't real."

"I wish you had known I'd never leave you," Sherlock said. "I wish you had known . . . I know you couldn't -- it was designed so that you couldn't -- but I wish somewhere inside you'd have known." He took a sip of tea. "Do you want me to go in the other room?" he asked softly.

"No," John mumbled, shaking his head. "I thought I did know you. I thought I'd been enough for you," he admitted. 

"And now you know you were right," Sherlock said. "It doesn't take away any of the pain you experienced, but at least, now you know you were right. You are everything to me." He swallowed awkwardly and drank the rest of his tea.

John kept staring down at his tea. "I loved you," he said quietly. 

"And I loved you too," Sherlock said just as quietly.

John shook his head. He was crying softly again. "After the pool I thought . . . I thought as soon as we get this guy I'm going to tell you. But he got to you first and I couldn't tell you, not even the last time we spoke. It haunted me."

Sherlock was silent for a moment. "You didn't say the words, John, but don't think for a moment, I didn't know . . . you told me all the time, in different ways," he said. "I just wish I could have done the same for you."

John dragged his eyes up to find Sherlock's. "And now?" he asked softly. 

"And now I will do better," Sherlock said.

"Do you still feel the same?" he asked. 

"Obviously," Sherlock said. "Why would my feelings change? I wasn't the one who was betrayed. The question is, do you still feel the same? Toward me, now, not who I was before."

"I don't know," he said honestly. He looked down at his still full mug. "I don't know who you are now."

"Then I guess that's how we'll spend the next twenty one hours," Sherlock said. "Finding out who we are now." He stood up and moved toward the kitchen, stopping at John's chair to pick up his mug. "I'm going to get another tea now. My insatiable desire for tea is still the same." He touched John's hand for just a second and then went to put the kettle back on.

John closed his eyes at the touch and nodded. "Do you mind if I have something a bit stronger?" he asked, getting up to look for something in the kitchen. 

"What do you want?" Sherlock said.

John pulled down the bottle of whiskey. "Just a little bit of this," he said, looking for a glass. 

Sherlock reached up to the top shelf in the cupboard and set two glasses down in front of John. Then he turned his attention back to the kettle, pouring himself a mug as well.

John poured some for the both of them, a little more in his own, and then put the bottle back. He didn't want a lot, but he was feeling too much, too many things, and he needed to calm down a bit. 

"Shall we got back into the other room?" Sherlock asked, carrying both his mug and glass and moving back to his chair. "Should I ask you some questions now?" 

"Whatever you want," he said. He felt like he had dominated the talking, but they were talking and that was what they needed. He'd answer whatever Sherlock wanted. 

"How is Harry?" Sherlock asked.

John blinked at him. "Um . . . she was fine, when we spoke last. That was just after your -- the funeral. We haven't much talked since."

"I wondered about her, I guess," Sherlock said.

John nodded as he took another sip of his drink, waiting for more questions. 

"I guess that's all I wanted to ask," Sherlock said. "And I wanted to say thank you," he added before lifting his glass to his mouth.

"Thank you for what?"

"For everything," Sherlock said, taking another sip.

"You only wanted to ask about my sister?" John asked incredulously. 

"I think so," Sherlock said. "Is there something else you'd like me to ask?"

John shook his head. "I've run out of things to say," he said. Of course there was more he hadn't told Sherlock -- what had happened with work, at his funeral, with his friends afterwards -- but those stories were too sad. And embarrassing. He wouldn't volunteer them. 

"No, you haven't," Sherlock said. "There are other things you want to say, I can tell. You don't have to now or ever. But you can." He took another sip of whiskey. "Are you going to say anything else?"

John looked at Sherlock, studying his features for a long moment before speaking. "I can't," he said finally. "I can't because here we are, spending twenty four straight hours together to try to get over it all but it's too much -- two years is too much to condense in twenty four hours. You talk. You tell me something."

"We're not trying to 'get over it', John," Sherlock said. "We're trying to . . . be us again." He finished his whiskey and then picked up his tea. "All right, let me tell you something . . . I greatly missed the smell of your shampoo. When I came back to the flat and smelled it, I cried in the shower because I felt so happy." 

John flushed and felt his own eyes burning. He had to look away, down at his half empty glass. John used to smell Sherlock's shampoo -- never used it, so it wouldn't empty. He took a long sip and glanced up again. 

"There, you didn't expect that, did you?" Sherlock said, making a little laugh. He looked over and smiled so genuinely at John.

"It's not funny," John mumbled, but the corners of his mouth twitched. His heart swelled up -- how long had it been since he had seen that smile? He looked up at Sherlock properly. "I can't imagine how you spent two years away -- what you did, what you saw, who you were with . . ." 

"I wasn't with anyone," Sherlock said abruptly. "I was on my own." He took a sip of tea. "But you were always with me."

John swallowed hard. "I saw you everywhere," he said. "I heard your voice so many times . . ." 

"I heard yours nagging me," Sherlock said. He swallowed the rest of his drink awkwardly. "Fuck it, John, I'm so sorry . . ." He stood up and got the bottle of whiskey, pouring a little more into his glass.

John looked up at the sudden out burst. Now that the whiskey was within reach, he took a bigger sip. "Is it awful that I feel better knowing you were miserable too?" he asked. 

"Yes, it is awful," Sherlock said. "You are a horrible person now."

John's eyes lifted to Sherlock's and suddenly he was laughing. He was laughing so hard that he doubled over a bit. What a ridiculous thing for him to say! Sherlock, who jumped to his fake death and came back two years later like he'd just been out for a milk run. 

"God, I've missed that sound," Sherlock said.

John slowly got a hold of himself, wiped his eyes and caught his breath, holding his stomach from laughing so hard. "If you ever leave me like that again -- I'll kill you, Sherlock. I'll find you wherever you've gone and I'll kill you," he said breathlessly. 

"Don't be so menacing," Sherlock said. "But I'll never leave you again, John. I . . . I just won't."

John flushed lightly, embarrassed by the thing he was going to say next. But these there the twenty four hours to say them and if he didn't now, he never would. "I won't survive it, Sherlock." He said it quietly, and just once. 

"I won't, John," Sherlock said. "Now that I see how you suffered . . . you needn't worry about my ever leaving again."

John nodded, draining his glass. He felt the warmth of the liquid moving all the way down to his stomach. "I do love you," he said quietly. "Of course I do."

"And, of course, I still love you," Sherlock said, finishing his whiskey.


	6. Kissing

John stared at him. He stood up slowly and moved closer to Sherlock, nudging his knees apart a bit so he could stand between his legs. Except for the cream, they hadn't touched since John tackled him. He reached out and touched Sherlock's cheeks lightly. Then he slid his hands around Sherlock's neck, climbed into his lap carefully, and hugged him so tightly that he was sure they would melt into one person. 

Sherlock held onto John. God, he'd missed being close to him. His body felt warm from the touch, the whiskey and the fire. Suddenly he realised he was home -- he finally felt home -- and he started to cry.

John squeezed Sherlock harder, buried in his chest as his own eyes burned. He realised that a very small part of him had still believed this was a hallucination and that finally, finally, he accepted that Sherlock was really home. Sherlock was really alive. 

"Careful," Sherlock mumbled. He shifted slightly in the chair so John's hands dropped lower down his back. "We're really close," he said stupidly, looking into John's eyes.

"I didn't mean to hurt your back," he said, keeping his hands softer. He held Sherlock's gaze, looking into his puffy eyes and knowing his didn't look any better. He closed the space and kissed him, just a quick peck on his lips. 

"You kissed my mouth," Sherlock said.

John nodded. "I know," he said. 

"Should I kiss yours?"

"If you'd like to," John said. He couldn't help glancing at Sherlock's lips, but he met his gaze again so he wouldn't give it away just how much he wanted that. 

Sherlock lifted his hand to the back of John's head, pulling it closer, before gently kissing his mouth.

John whined softly, a small sound of finally getting something he had always wanted. His fingers curled on Sherlock's chest and gripped his shirt lightly. 

"We didn't do this before," Sherlock mumbled, pressing his forehead to John's. "Do you want us to do this now?"

"That's what people who love each other do," he said softly. He couldn't stop looking at Sherlock's eyes. So bright. So alive. 

"But we loved each other before . . ." Sherlock said. "Why now?"

"We didn't know before. I didn't," John said. He was realising that he was still sitting in Sherlock's lap and he hoped that was okay. He hoped Sherlock wasn't hurting because of this. John just needed to be close to him. 

"Maybe we should go lie down by each other," Sherlock said. "I mean . . . maybe we should go into my room."

John nodded, shifting to get up without hurting him. "I'll bring the cream -- you really should keep putting it on every day," he said quietly. 

Sherlock smiled and carried the glasses and bottle into the kitchen. He stopped into the bathroom and then went to his bedroom, changing into his pajama bottoms but staying shirtless. He lay down on his bed and waited for John.

John went up to his room and grabbed the cream, then changed into his pajamas before going back down. He went into Sherlock's room and stood close to him, running his fingers through Sherlock's hair before he started putting the cream on. 

"I like the hair touching," Sherlock mumbled.

John brought up the clean hand and started fiddling with Sherlock's hair -- straightening curls, running his fingers through them, grazing his scalp lightly. 

"It's been so long since anyone's touched me nicely," Sherlock said. "I should've known it'd be you and that it'd be good."

John bit his lips and couldn't help wondering what else had happened to him while he was away. He doubted Sherlock had avoided injuries until the very end -- not chasing after the dangerous people he was fighting. But he didn't ask now. One day, when they were both more stable, they might talk more about it. For now, he wanted to focus on the good things. "I just want you to feel good," he said. 

"You have no idea how much you helped me when I was away, John," Sherlock said quietly. "You live in every room of my Mind Palace."

John closed his eyes, both hands rubbing Sherlock gently, softly. "I love you, Sherlock. Thank you for coming home to me," he murmured. 

"Thank you for being home," Sherlock said. He reached one of his hands back to touch John's arm.

When Sherlock's whole back was done, John capped the cream and walked around the other side of the bed. Putting it on the bedside table, John climbed into Sherlock's bed and scooted close to him. He lifted his hand and kept playing with Sherlock's hair. "I used to sleep in here," he admitted. 

"When? While I was gone?" Sherlock said, turning a bit to face him. "Did you bring anyone in here with you?"

John's eyes flashed with hurt before he shook his head quickly. "Of course not. I didn't . . . I couldn't," he stammered. "I never saw anyone after . . ." he swallowed hard. "I slept here when the dreams were too bad. I could almost pretend that you were here with me. I didn't do it very often, because everything smelled like you and I wanted to hold on to that as long as I could." 

"I didn't want you to be lonely," Sherlock whispered.

John looked down at the bed because he had no response to that. He had been lonely. He had built his whole new life around Sherlock. It was where he lived, where he worked, and even when he dated Sherlock was there, interrupting everything. And then he was gone. He was ashamed to admit how dependent he had become on Sherlock, but now that Sherlock was back he knew he would do it all again. He looked up to Sherlock's eyes again, still petting his hair. "I'm not anymore," he said. 

"Good," Sherlock said. He leaned in and kissed John's lips softly.

"I love you," John said softly, so close that some of the letters made his lips brush Sherlock's. 

Sherlock ran his fingers through John's hair. He pulled back and just looked at John's face for a moment before kissing him again.

John kissed him back, scooting still closer, wrapping an arm around his waist to hold him close. 

Sherlock dropped his face to John's neck, burying it there. "Let's go to sleep now," he said.

John wrapped his arm properly around Sherlock and nodded. "Okay," he said softly. All of the talking had tired him out -- so many emotions crammed together had left him feeling exhausted. He closed his eyes and was already dozing off. "Good night, Sherlock."

"Good night, John," Sherlock mumbled against his skin. His eyes were already closed and soon he was asleep.

John fell asleep against Sherlock, wrapped up in his scent and his warmth. For the first time since Sherlock jumped, John slept with an empty head. A calm, black screen the whole night.


	7. New

When Sherlock woke up, he was no longer against John. He rolled over and touched John's arm lightly.

John jumped a bit, but he blinked his eyes open and found Sherlock. The room was brighter than he expected it to be. "Hello," he murmured, rubbing his face hard for a moment before yawning. 

"We spent the night in the same room," Sherlock said lightly, reaching over to squeeze John's hand. 

"We did," he said, turning his hand to hold Sherlock's. 

"Are you all right with that?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "Yeah. Are you?" 

"Yeah," Sherlock smiled. "I don't think we're sick of each other yet."

"We're only in the middle of our twenty four hours," he said. 

Sherlock closed his eyes and stretched. "Today is much better than yesterday," he said softly.

"We talked about a lot of things," John said. "Hopefully this means there won't be so much in our way."

"Do we have to keep talking about things?" Sherlock asked. "I mean, do we have to keep having talks? Can't we just . . . talk when we need to talk?"

"We can talk when we need to talk," John said. "I just don't want it all to build up and get in the way again."

"Well, tell me when you get ready to explode," Sherlock said. "I guess we should get up and get some tea."

"I'm not worried about exploding," John said. "I'm worried about us getting too far away again." He kissed Sherlock's temple before getting up and stretching. He went to the bathroom and freshened up before going to the kitchen to start the kettle. 

Sherlock moved out to the kitchen and sat down at the table. "What are we going to do today since we'll be trapped together?" he asked as he fiddled with the hem of his dressing gown.

John shrugged. "I don't have anything planned, since I'd been expecting to be at work." He looked over at Sherlock. "I suppose we can't sit around and just stare at each other," he smiled softly. 

"We could, if that's the kind of thing you like," Sherlock said. "Is it now? Is that the kind of thing you like now?" 

John shrugged. "I haven't looked at you in a long time," he said. He poured the water and brought Sherlock his mug, sitting across from him at the table with his own mug. 

Sherlock pulled a silly smile. "Well, have a good look," he said. He rubbed his chin. "I need a shave actually."

"I don't know, I kind of like it," John said. 

"Well, I'm going to go get cleaned up," Sherlock said, standing. "Can you go get the paper and see if the post has come?"

"Sure," John nodded. He took another sip of tea before going down to get the paper. He brought it up and left it on Sherlock's side of the desk before going to make breakfast. The flat seemed . . . easier to navigate than yesterday morning.

Sherlock came out of the bathroom, having washed, shaved and gotten himself dressed. "Is it quite cold out?" he asked. "Your face is pink." 

"Yeah, it's cold," he said. "It's windy."

"Well, let's stay in a while," Sherlock said, grabbing a fresh cup of tea and the paper and moving to the sofa. "Maybe later we can go out and get you lunch."

"Us lunch," John corrected. "You've not eaten in a while."

"Mrs Hudson was stuffing me full of food yesterday and I'm sure I ate something at Angelo's," Sherlock said, flipping through the pages. "Does the nagging have to return just because things are normal between us again?" he asked, staring down at one of the articles.

John nodded. "Of course it does. I haven't nagged in two years," he said. However, it sat uneasy with him. He didn't know if he could joke about that yet. 

Sherlock glanced over at John. Hi stomach hurt a little, and he wondered if it were just hunger. "Here," he said, handing him part of the paper. "Look over this and let me know if you see anything interesting."

John took the paper over his plate. "Like cases?"

"No," Sherlock said. "Maybe . . . I don't know, just find something interesting." He went back to looking at the newspaper, but he wasn't really reading it. He was thinking about the fact that what had happened will never go away, no matter how much he wished it would. He stole a few glances at John as they both read. After a while, he stood up and moved to the window. "It looks dry at least, even if it's cold," he said. "Do you want to go get dressed and we'll go?"

"What do you have in mind?" he asked. 

"A walk and some lunch, I guess," Sherlock said. "Unless you have somewhere specific you'd like to go."

"No, that sounds nice," he said. 

"Well, fine, let's go then," Sherlock said, turning and heading up to John's room.

"Are you coming up to watch me dress?" John smiled. 

"We agreed to be in the same room at all times, except for bathroom breaks," Sherlock said. "I know you like rules, John, and I'm just obeying them." He smiled as he moved up the stairs.

John laughed softly. "Whatever you say." In his room he got out a pair of jeans and a fresh shirt, putting those on before looking for a jumper. He tried not to look to see if Sherlock was looking. 

"Are you going to sleep in my room again tonight?" Sherlock said, doing his best to randomly look around John's room instead of directly at him.

"Yeah, I would like to," he said. "I didn't have a nightmare and . . . well, it was nice."

Sherlock turned to look at John who was now dressed. "Have you been having them since I got home?" he asked.

"Since the day you left," he said. He fussed his hair a bit and turned to face him properly. 

"But why haven't you told me? I would have sat with you like I used to," Sherlock said. His stomach ached again.

John shrugged. "I -- we were hardly talking," he said.

Sherlock moved over to John and held his arms. "Damn it, John," he said. "Please . . . don't keep secrets -- I know it's rich coming from me, but from now on, John, no more secrets."

"What was I supposed to say? Come lay with me even though you can't be in the same room as me?" he asked. "We're getting there. You know now," he said softly. 

Sherlock exhaled and stepped back. "I'm sorry," he said and turned his body away a bit. 

"Don't -- please don't go away again," John said softly, moving closer to him.

Sherlock stepped towards John and put his arms around him. "I told you I wouldn't," he said.

"I mean mentally," he said, hugging Sherlock tightly. 

Sherlock squeezed John's arms. "Come on," he said. "Let's get out of the flat for a bit."

John nodded, letting him go and following him downstairs. He bundled up tightly, making sure he had his wallet before they left

They walked for a while. "It's cold," Sherlock said, and it crossed his mind to reach out and hold John's hand but he didn't. "Let's head somewhere for lunch. Where do you want to eat?"

"Um, there's a new place that opened by the surgery, a little bakery. Want to go there?"

"Okay, yeah," Sherlock said. "Do you go there a lot?"

"Sometimes for lunch during work. Not too often," he said. 

Sherlock held the door open for John and followed where he went. Suddenly he felt like he was in a foreign country and John was his guide. He stood behind him at the counter and let John order for him.

John ordered tea for both of them, a sandwich for himself and a warm croissant for Sherlock. He hoped that was light enough to make Sherlock comply and eat something. 

Sherlock followed John to a table. "I don't know if I like this place," he said. "I don't know."

"What's wrong?" John asked, watching Sherlock closely. 

"I just don't know it," Sherlock said. "It's . . . not what I'm used to it."

John looked down at the food. "Do you want to go home? Or somewhere else?"

Sherlock looked down at his tea. "No, I'm all right," he said. "Just stay with me, yeah?"

John didn't know where Sherlock thought he was going to go, but he didn't reply. He reached out and touched Sherlock's hand instead, holding it lightly over the table. 

Sherlock squeezed John's back. "Sorry," he mumbled. "It's just . . . I don't feel quite used to everything, I guess."

"I know it's going to take some time," John said. "Do you want me to take a leave from work? Maybe a month so we can...catch up properly?"

"No," Sherlock said, pushing back in his chair a little and trying to act normally. "Sorry, I'm fine -- it's just all this new stuff . . . talking, feelings, kissing . . ." He looked over at John and tried to smile. "And now a new cafe . . . I'm fine." He took a sip of tea.

"Does all of that stuff bother you?" he asked. 

"None of it bothers me," Sherlock said. "It's just new and I'm not always good with new things." He looked over at John. "But you're not new. I'm glad I still have you, you know."

John smiled softly at him and nodded. "I'm glad I have you, too."

Sherlock ate his croissant and picked some of the crisps off John's plate. He was starting to feel a bit better.

John ate and looked out of the window they were sitting by. The wind was still going a bit hard, and he wished he had a scarf. "I wore your scarf once," he said. 

"Outrageous," Sherlock smiled. "Sleeping in my bed, wearing my clothes . . . I didn't have anything of you . . . except what was in my head."

"I only did it once. It didn't go over well," he said, looking down at his crisps for a second before looking out of the window again. 

"What happened? You didn't almost strangle yourself, did you?" Sherlock asked.

John's lip twitched in a sad smile. "It didn't go over very well when people saw me. The looks they gave me, pity . . . well, I just found it better to keep that sort of behaviour in the flat."

"Sorry," Sherlock mumbled. He looked up. "Let's go back to the flat now, yeah?"

John looked over at Sherlock and nodded. "Okay," he said. 

Sherlock carried the plates to the counter and once they were out on the street, he slid off his scarf and wrapped it around John's neck, pausing to give him a smile, and then turning to head home.

John's vision blurred for a moment as he pressed the scarf close and breathed deeply. Then he caught up with Sherlock and took his hand, putting it into his pocket as they walked.

"I might take a little nap when I get home," Sherlock said a bit randomly.

"That's fine," John said. "I can work on the blog or something for a bit."

"In my room?" Sherlock asked. "The twenty hour hours isn't up," he added with a wink.

John smiled. "I know that! That's what I meant," he said. 

"Your blogging will disrupt my sleep," Sherlock said.

John hid his sly smile in the scarf. "Well I suppose I can't work if you're trying to sleep."

"Good, fine," Sherlock said. "We'll have a little nap when we get home -- as I said."

"I have to nap too?" John asked, looking over at him. 

"For God's sake, John, yes," Sherlock said dramatically. "Just because you're wearing my scarf doesn't mean you get to be as obstinate as I usually am."

"I don't want to nap. I want to pout around the flat and smoke thirty cigarettes," he grinned, lifting the collar of his jacket up. 

"Hilarious," Sherlock said. When they got back he unlocked the door and bent over to pick up the post. He carried it upstairs and threw it on the table, and then said, "Cup of tea before our nap?" as he clicked on the kettle.

"No thanks. I'm okay from lunch," John said. He hung Sherlock's scarf and grazed his fingers over it lightly before going into the sitting room to wait for him. 

Sherlock turned to pour his tea. "Should we take our clothes off for this nap?" he asked casually.

John bumped the sofa, looking over at Sherlock before he had stopped walking. He thought about the way they had been kissing the night before and flushed lightly. "Yes, I think we should," he said. 

"Might be chilly," Sherlock said as he turned and brought his tea to his chair.

"I'm sure we can keep warm," John said.

Sherlock took a long drink of tea. Even though he was the one who had introduced this topic, he was a little nervous. About what John was expecting. About what he himself was expecting. He didn't know the answer to either of those questions, and he always felt better when he knew what was going to happen. 

John looked over at Sherlock, fiddling with his own fingers nervously. Were they really going to do this? He loved Sherlock, he wanted to, but he couldn't help feeling like Sherlock might be regretting bringing it up, like he'd called out Sherlock's bluff. 

Sherlock finished his tea and stood up, taking it to the kitchen sink. He turned to look at John and said, "Come on then," before heading into his bedroom.

John got up and hurried after him, closing the bedroom door behind him.


	8. Nap

Sherlock took a deep breath and started to take off his clothes. He knew John didn't have any pajamas in here, so it'd only be fair if they both stripped equally. He decided to keep his pants on, but otherwise took everything off, before climbing into the bed.

John started taking his clothes, watching Sherlock for cues on when to stop. When Sherlock climbed into bed with his pants on, John did the same. 

They lay there for a few moments, both looking up at the ceiling. "I'd like to lie closer to you," Sherlock said quietly. "Is that okay?"

"Yes, of course," John said. Even after the intimate cuddling the night before, he felt nervous. They were going to touch bare skin now. He shifted to make it easier. 

Sherlock moved over, curling a bit around him and tangling their legs. He was pretty sure this was the first time their bare legs had ever touched. He pressed his hand on John's chest.

John closed his eyes. This was even more proof, more concrete evidence that Sherlock was here and alive. His body was warm, it felt good against him. 

"Should we kiss again?" Sherlock asked.

John opened his eyes. "Yes please," he said, shifting a bit to try and get to Sherlock's lips. 

Sherlock leaned close and kissed John softly. He put his head against John's shoulder for a moment and then leaned up and kissed him again, his hand moving across John's body to grip his arm. John tilted his head into the kiss, licking out at Sherlock's lips, tasting his skin. He wanted to taste every inch, to prove every inch of him was home and with him. Sherlock let a small noise escape from his throat. This kissing was different than last night's. He held John's arm tightly, letting his other hand move into John's hair as they continued to kiss. John moaned softly, licking into his mouth for more, wanting to deepen the kiss. He couldn't get enough. 

Sherlock let his tongue find John's. His body felt warm and his mind relaxed. "John," he exhaled softly before kissing his mouth again. He moved a hand tentatively to John's back, pressing their chests flat together. His mouth moved to John's ear which he kissed and sucked as he mumbled sounds.

John nodded and arched against Sherlock's body, moaning even louder. 

Sherlock's hand moved to John's waist and he slid it inside his pants, wrapping his long fingers around John's cock. "Don't make me stop, John," he whispered before starting a slow stroke.

John shook his head desperately. "Please don't . . . I want you so badly." 

Sherlock kept the stroke. Now he dropped his mouth to John's neck and sucked hard on the skin. His hips moved gently with the rhythm of his hand. John shivered under him, his body hot all over. His hands moved around to get into Sherlock's pants as well. He moaned when his fingers brushed his cock before palming it hard. 

"God," Sherlock called at John's touch. He couldn't even remember the last time he'd been touched there, and it didn't matter anyway because this connection was so intense. "Please . . ." he moaned softly, his hips and hand moving steadily.

John flipped them so he was on top of Sherlock, gazing down at him. "I'm going to taste every inch of you," he murmured. He leaned down and kissed his lips, up his jaw and to his ear. "And then I want you to fill me up," he whispered. 

"John, Jesus," Sherlock exhaled. "I don't know if I can . . . it's so much . . ." he tried to take a deep breath. "I want to -- I used to think about it while I was away, if I'm honest . . . but it's so much . . ."

John kept kissing down his neck now. "I just want to feel you everywhere," he mumbled, kissing over his chest. 

Sherlock kept his focus on his breathing for a few minutes, feeling John's hair trail across his skin. He lifted a hand to John's arm, wanting to connect with him in every single way. He made a small moan at the pleasure as John flicked his tongue across one of Sherlock's nipples.

"John, it feels so good . . ." he moaned, arching slightly off the bed. He gripped the back of John's head now, pulling slightly on his hair. John hummed as he moved to the other nipple, biting at it softly. Sherlock shifted his legs, kind of wrapping one around John as he lifted his hips to press against him. "You're making me crazy," he moaned.

"Good," John smiled, making his way lower along his stomach. 

"John -- are you going to . . ." Sherlock asked, lifting his hand and looking down.

John nodded against his belly before moving lower, kissing over his hips and down to his inner thighs. 

"I don't know if I can take it," Sherlock smiled. He rocked his hips lightly in anticipation.

"I don't care," John grinned. He sucked Sherlock into his mouth and wished he could do something fancy and take him all the way down, but he only went half way, bobbing slowly. 

"John," Sherlock moaned loudly. "God. . .please. . ." He lifted his hips softly, using John's rhythm. He moved his hand over his chest and down his stomach to lightly rest on John's head.

John hummed around him, moving his head up and down as he licked the underside. 

"John, please," Sherlock said, squirming at every one of John's moves. "I don't think I can last much longer…"

John slowly pulled off, kissing his hip again. 

Sherlock took a deep breath and smiled down at John. "Come here, you maniac," he said, pulling on John's arms. He gave him a rough, sloppy kiss. John kissed him back hungrily, lacing his fingers into his hair. 

"Do you really want to . . .?" Sherlock asked.

John nodded. "Do you?"

"Yeah," Sherlock said, pulling him toward him and squeezing him. "I'm a little nervous, but I am about ready to explode . . . but I . . . I don't have anything here," Sherlock mumbled, shifting their bodies so they were lying face-to-face.

"I do in my room -- give me one second," John said. He kissed Sherlock and hurried up to his room, digging in his drawer for lube and condoms. When he came back, he crawled up into the bed again. 

Sherlock stroked himself slowly while John was gone. He was still a bit nervous, but the minute John came back in the room, he forgot about his nerves and quickly crawled over top of John, kissing his mouth hard and reaching down to stroke John's cock.

"I love you," John moaned against his mouth, rubbing his sides as they kissed. 

"I love you, too," Sherlock said, thrusting his hips against John as he continued to stroke him. He kept kissing him before slowly moving down his body. He kissed his chest and then reached between John's legs, softly touching everywhere. He reached for the lube and tried to dribble some into his hand, but ended up spilling it all over. He looked up at John and smiled and then went back to stroking his cock, letting his hand move between John's legs, occasionally brushing his fingertips over his hole. "Okay?" he said.

"Okay," John nodded, smiling at Sherlock. "You're so handsome . . .so sexy . . ."

Sherlock slowly pushed a finger inside John as he leaned over and kissed his chest. He did his best to press himself against the bed to get a little friction.

"Yes," John murmured, closing his eyes to focus on it all. 

Sherlock leaned up and kissed John's mouth. He lifted his head and looked down at John's face. "I do want to, John," he said softly. He slipped a second finger inside.

John opened his eyes and met Sherlock's with a small smile. "That's good," he said.

Sherlock pulled his fingers from John and reached for a condom. He slid it on and then moved back between John's legs before very slowly pushing inside. "God," he called and then lowered his body over John's to kiss his mouth.

John closed his eyes and groaned softly. Sherlock was home. Sherlock was alive and he was filling him, the stretch solidifying it all. "I missed you so much," he sighed, leaning up and kissing him hard. 

"I'll always be here," Sherlock said. He closed his eyes tightly and let his mind shut off and his body take control. He thrust gently until his hips moved on their own, steadily pumping. "Touch yourself . . . I'm already too close," he said.

John gripped his cock, stroking slowly. "Please . . . just a bit more . . ." he moaned softly. 

Sherlock kept his eyes closed. He roughly kissed John's mouth, grunting in between kisses.

John stroked himself faster, moaning at the fullness. "Sherlock . . .yes . . ."

"John, I can't --" Sherlock said but it was too late. He pushed hard into John as he came, his whole body tightening before the release.

John called out loudly, burying into Sherlock's neck as he let go and came between them. 

Sherlock mumbled John's name over and over against his neck. He was so overwhelmed with feelings. "I'm so sorry," he said softly.

"Shh," John whispered, holding him close. "I love you so much."

"I love you," Sherlock said. He slowly moved out of John's body, getting rid of the condom before grabbing a tissue and cleaning up John's belly. Then he curled close to him. "My god, that was exhausting," he whispered, smiling. "I might have to sleep a little."

John nodded. "Thank you," he said softly. 

Sherlock was already asleep. He hadn't felt this comforted and comfortable since he'd got back. He snuggled close to John as he drifted deeper.

John petted Sherlock's hair until he dozed off himself, sated and happy. Again he didn't have any nightmares -- his mind was quiet as he slept tangled into Sherlock. When he woke up it was well into the afternoon. He wondered what time it was but didn't feel like turning to look. He was still wrapped up in Sherlock, and he didn't want to give it up just yet. 

Sherlock felt John move so he opened his eyes. "Hey," he said softly. "Remember?"

"Always," John murmured. He was petting Sherlock's hair again. 

Sherlock stretched a little. "We should get up," he said. "I mean, I need the toilet -- you can stay if you want . . . if you're lazy."

"I'm comfortable," John corrected with a smile. "Maybe you can bring tea?" he asked, batting his lashes a bit as he grinned at Sherlock.

"I think you're taking advantage," Sherlock said. He nipped into the toilet and then washed his hands and face. He moved into the kitchen, making tea and then carrying both mugs back into the bedroom.

John sat up when Sherlock came back, smiling at him. "Thanks for the tea," he said, taking a small sip. 

"Yeah, yeah, yeah," Sherlock said, crawling back into the bed. "Well, we've got a few more hours left . . . have you thought about where you're going to escape to once time's up?"

"I'm not going anywhere," John said, looking over at him.

"Good," Sherlock said. "Perhaps you should quit your job totally and we can just stay here forever."

John shook his head. "We'll kill each other," he teased.

"We won't," Sherlock said. "Unless you sex me to death."

"You can keep up," he smiled. 

Sherlock turned toward him. "I hope I can," he said softly. "I don't mean the sex stuff -- I mean, I hope I can do it all right by you." He looked up at him. "I won't be able to take it if you get hurt again."

John reached out and touched his cheek, smiling softly. "We'll be okay," he said. "Everything will be okay now."

Sherlock smiled back at him. "I want it to be -- I'll do anything to make sure we're okay," he said. He curled in around John again. "We should get up soon," he said. "It won't be long until you need food again."

"We should shower," he said, tracing the red lines on Sherlock's back. "I'll put more cream on you and then we can go out. First time as boyfriends," he smiled. 

Sherlock smiled at John. Somehow he didn't mind John's romanticism when it was directed at him. He stayed curled around him and then eventually moved to stretch and get up.

"Do you want to go in together?" John asked, finishing his tea. 

"Um, yeah, all right," Sherlock said, throwing his dressing gown around him and moving to pick out some clothes. "I've never really showered with someone before."

"It's nice," he said, pulling his pants on. 

"Hmm..." Sherlock said skeptically. "All right, let's give it a try." He headed into the bathroom and brushed his teeth while he waited for John to get clothes and the cream. When he returned, Sherlock turned on the water and stepped in. "I like it quite hot," he explained.

"That's all right," John said, climbing in as well. 

Sherlock instinctively wrapped his arms around John. "I just wanted to see what it was like standing up," he smiled and he pulled back and grabbed a flannel. "Maybe you could check my back and make sure they're all right. I've tried to keep them clean but it's difficult on my own." He slowly turned around.

John nodded. "They seem clean," he said. "But the cream will help all of that scarring -- you'll hardly be able to tell," he said. 

Sherlock thought about that -- relatively sure that lack of marks he couldn't see anyway would do little to help him forget. Of course, he'd thought about deleting it all, and one day he probably would. But not yet. "Thanks," he said, turning back to grab some soap and wash the rest of him.

John took the soap from him and washed Sherlock, running soapy hands all over His torso and legs and arms. "See? It's nicer together," he said. 

"Okay," Sherlock said. When John had finished, he said, "All right, let me do you." He soaped his hands and rubbed them over John's body. "You really are quite muscular, you know."

John smiled softly. "Yeah, but I've lost a bit without our usual running around."

"One day we will again," Sherlock said. When they finished, he got out and dried off. He watched John getting dressed. It was strange to see him naked.

"Do you want to put the cream on now or when we come home?"

"Now, please," Sherlock said. He slid on his trousers and turned with his back to John.

John opened the cream and started rubbing it on slowly. It seemed to already be helping a bit. Physically anyway. He kissed Sherlock's shoulder softly as he worked. 

John's fingers and mouth on his back relaxed Sherlock. He couldn't believe how good it finally felt to be home. When John finished, he turned around and gave him a soft kiss. "You know," he mumbled as he pressed his mouth against John's ear.

"Know what?" John asked softly. 

"How I feel," Sherlock whispered. "That I love you."

John smiled and wrapped his arms around Sherlock. "I love you too, Sherlock."


	9. Home

Sherlock squeezed him and then stepped back. "All right, come on now," he said. "Let's get going."

John nodded, stepping back to finish getting dressed. He thought about Sherlock's discomfort at the new cafe. "Angelo's?" he asked. 

"Yeah," he said, glancing in the mirror and fiddling with his hair. He opened the door and stepped out. "It looks like a nice evening," he said, glancing at the window before moving to put his coat on.

John nodded, taking an extra moment to fuss with his own hair. He came out and grabbed his coat. "Hopefully it's a little warmer out."

Sherlock stepped out on to the pavement. "It's not," he said. "It's still cold."

"Well, we'll be inside again soon enough," he said. When they started walking he reached out and took Sherlock's hand. 

Sherlock grasped John's hand tightly, using his other hand to lift his collar. "Do you want my scarf?" he asked.

"No, it looks better on you," John said. 

Sherlock let the corner of his mouth turn up. "Stop it," he said, squeezing John's hand.

"It does. You look sexy. Mysterious," he smiled.

"I'm not mysterious, John," Sherlock said. "You know everything about me."

"You are still a bit," John said realising that always was a part of Sherlock's appeal. 

"Well…" Sherlock said, holding the door open for John. "No more secrets . . ." They walked in and took their usual table.

"Secrets are not the same as mystery," John said. "Hey," he added, glancing down at this watch. "Our twenty four hours is almost up." 

Sherlock paused as Angelo poured them so wine. When he stepped away, he reached over and grabbed John's hand. "Never leave me, John," he said. "I'll never leave you again."

"I'll never leave you, Sherlock." He laced their fingers. "Never."

"We can still use the toilet in privacy, though, right?" Sherlock said, sitting back in his seat a bit to try to lighten things.

John laughed. "Yes, Sherlock, of course."

Angelo returned, putting their plates down. Sherlock smiled to thank him, and noticed that Angelo was raising his eyebrows at him. He took a long drink of wine. Once they were alone again, he picked up his fork and played with his food. "Do you think we're all right now?" he asked. "I mean, well . . . I'm worried about something, I guess."

"What's that?" John asked, looking over at him. 

Sherlock let his eyes go a bit fuzzy so he wasn't actually looking at anything. "I am afraid that someone will mention something that happened while I was gone and I won't know what it is and I won't . . . feel okay about that."

John licked his lips lightly, thinking about the cafe they had gone to. "Sherlock . . . it was two years . . . I'm sure there are things from your two years that I won't like either but . . .it had to be done. And now it is done, and we're together again." 

"But it's different . . ." Sherlock said and then stopped. "All right. I'll try not to think about it." He took a bite of food.

"But it's not different. You left. I didn't stop living," he said softly. 

"But I did," Sherlock said. He fiddled with his food some more and took another drink, draining the glass. "I'm sorry . . . let's talk about something else."

"No, I want you to get it all out so we can be okay," he said. 

"I'm afraid, John . . ." Sherlock said in almost a whisper. "I'm afraid I'll get it all wrong."

"Don't be afraid," John said softly. "There's no right or wrong. Your feelings are what they are."

"Don't say that, John," Sherlock said. "I have done wrong before -- you know I have." He swallowed. "I just don't want to again."

"Sherlock, you're trying. You're here and you're trying to do right and that's what's important," John said. 

Sherlock set his fork down. "Don't be so . . . I need you to hold me accountable, John Watson. I never want to hurt you but I may need some help, okay?"

"Okay," he nodded. "We can help each other."

"I don't know how much help I'll be but okay," Sherlock said, finally relaxing a little.

John noticed how he relaxed. "Are you okay? Do you want to talk still?"

"No," Sherlock said. "I mean, not about that stuff . . . I need a break from talking about it. It's not my strong point, as you know."

"I know," John said. "But that was serious, what you brought up. I just want to make sure."

"This is all serious," Sherlock said. "Finish your food -- I'd like to have a cigarette when we go."

John nodded. "Okay," he said. He went back to eating, glancing up at him. 

"I've missed watching you enjoy your food," Sherlock said smiling a bit. 

"It's easier to enjoy now," he said, smiling lightly. He didn't mention how he'd hardly eaten in last two years.

Sherlock got another glass of wine but drank it more slowly. When John was finished he helped him on with his coat and then wrapped his scarf around John. "I'm all right," he said. "You'll be cold when we go out." 

John touched Sherlock's hands as he settled the scarf around his neck. 

"Come on, I'd like us to stop somewhere," Sherlock said. He got them a cab and leaned in to give the driver directions. He watched John's face when they pulled up outside the graveyard. "Come on," he said softly. "It's okay . . ."

"Sherlock . . ." John said softly, stopping at the gates. He was shaking his head, swallowing hard. 

"Please, John," Sherlock said, pulling his hand. "I need us to go back . . ."

John focused on the feel of Sherlock's hand in his own -- his warm skin, his solid, strong hand. He adjusted the scarf to breathe in his scent, to remind himself that he was real. "Okay," he murmured, allowing Sherlock to pull him along. 

Sherlock walked with John through the darkness, moving them close to the empty grave. He turned and put his hands on John's cheeks. "Look at me, John," he said. "I am alive. I will never regret protecting you but I will live the rest of my life trying to make up for the pain I caused you. But I need to tell you something. I loved you. I loved you before I left and while I was gone, I knew . . . I knew it was you, always and only you that I have these feelings for. That will never change -- if you leave Baker Street, if you change your mind about kissing, if you decide you don't love me -- my feelings for you will never change." He paused for a moment. "You need never worry about my love for you, but I might worry about yours. Because of things I've done and because of things you've done. You've loved other people . . . and I've hurt you so . . . I will worry, John, but I will try . . . I want to make you happy."

John brought his hands up to cover Sherlock's. He didn't look anywhere but into his eyes. "I came here and said to you . . . I asked you not to be dead. I wanted that with everything inside of me. And then you were alive again . . ." Tears were spilling out now but he didn't move his hands to wipe them away. He gripped Sherlock's hands tighter. "I loved you before you left but I was blind, I was stupid. I thought I would never have the chance to tell you. But now . . . I know there will be things that you missed, things that will come up that I have to explain to you, but I get to wake up next to you and tell you that I love you. Those two years -- they happened. They were painful but they helped me see…and they helped me appreciate you so much more. I know what it's like to lose you -- to try to live my life without you. So I want you to be sure that, no matter how hard things get or how much help you need to work through your worries, it's worth it. I'll gladly do it with you because it so much better than the alternative." 

Sherlock leaned in and kissed John's mouth softly. Tears came down both of their faces, but Sherlock knew that no one in the world could ever break what bound the two of them together. 

"Can we leave here now?" John asked softly. 

"We never have to come back here," Sherlock said. "Let's go home." He turned them and they walked back to the waiting cab.

John sat close to Sherlock in the cab, leaning against him. He wanted to cuddle close to him, to wrap their limbs together and feel Sherlock everywhere. "I feel like I am still getting used to you being home, so I might be a bit clingy for a while," he admitted. 

Sherlock smiled, moving even closer. When the cab pulled up at Baker Street, he grabbed John's hand and pulled him quickly into the flat. "Let's go to bed," he said. "I want to be next to you."

John nodded, hanging Sherlock's scarf and his coat. "Yes," he said, following closely behind him. 

Sherlock moved swiftly into the bedroom, stripping himself of his clothes and slipping on his pajama bottoms. "I need to feel you close to me," he said, climbing under the blanket.

John was still shaken up from visiting the grave. How long had it been since he had gone? Not since the little speech he made. He was glad he would never have to again. He climbed into the bed and wrapped around Sherlock, his head on Sherlock's chest and his arm over his torso. "It's warm next to you," he said.

"I feel warm with you," Sherlock said as he stroked John's arm softly. 

"Are you okay?" John asked, putting a kiss on his shoulder.

"I am," Sherlock said. "You are everything to me, John Watson, and I am so grateful to be home and that home is with you."


End file.
